


Anchored in the Ground

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Camp Jaha | Arkadia, Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic, Leadership, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: The Rover returns, at last, in the late afternoon. Bellamy, Monty, and Jasper are standing in the hangar deck to meet it as it rolls inside, slow and weary, Raven behind the wheel and Clarke in the passenger seat. Monty and Jasper walk around to the left side to help Raven down, but Bellamy stays where he is. His heart is pounding a slow beat in his throat and he is tense, counting down the last seconds of missing her.The passenger door opens and he sees her at last, Clarke, dangling her legs over the side of the truck before she lowers herself down. Her boots thump on the concrete floor, and she slams her door shut. Then at last she turns around and sees him. And smiles, a wide, relieved, private smile that is only for him.As they approach a relationship milestone, Bellamy and Clarke consider their personal futures, and the future of Arkadia.





	Anchored in the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for hostagetakerandhisgirlfriend on tumblr, who requested a prompt from a prompt list of mine (back in November! I'm sorry it's taken so long... To be honest this was actually written pretty fast by my standards, but editing took a while). To avoid (minor) spoilers, I'm putting the prompt itself in the end notes.
> 
> Canon-divergent in that _most_ events are the same up through S3 but Praimfaya II never happened and neither did any deaths I didn't personally like.

Bellamy wakes early to the first cold snap of the season. His feet are chilly where they stick out from under the blanket. The right side of the bed is empty and cool. 

He reaches out for her anyway, forgetting that she isn't there, and sighs under his breath when his arm drops onto the mattress. The dead weight of it anchors him back into sleep. He rolls all the way over, squashing his face into the pillow. Opens one eye. The cabin is dim, ill-lit with a peculiar grey light. 

Later, he steps outside and toes his boot into the grass, which is covered in a thin layer of ice. _Frost_ , he reminds himself. Even now, the words don’t always come to him: they are a foreign language he has had to learn. The ice cracks easily under the slightest pressure, and melts at the touch of his hand. 

One thing he'll have to do is talk to Monty about the crops, make sure they'll still be able to salvage enough in the harvest, that the damage of this overnight freeze can be contained. After that, he'll ask Jasper how the radio repairs are coming. And in the early afternoon, a meeting, finally, about his plans for the school.

The cafeteria isn't open yet, but Bellamy heads in that direction anyway, walking slowly and breathing in deep of the hard, cool air. It feels like winter in his lungs. But he's been on Earth long enough to know that early cold spells can break, that a second wave of autumn may still come. Real Earth weather is more unpredictable than anyone on the Ark could have guessed, so much more complicated than the simple charts of the four seasons that they used to memorize in Earth Skills, and this reassures him, this unsteadiness, the uncertain and stumbling path of the cycle of each new year. 

Halfway down the street, he runs into Bryan, on his way out of his cabin to relieve the night shift guards. Bellamy greets him lightly. "Good morning, Chancellor Blake," he says, waving, in reply. 

* 

The happy couple declare that the wedding will be simple. The hundred disagree, and Arkadia is reminded that its first citizens spilled out of prison and then into the woods, that they crash-landed by themselves, just kids then and with nothing to lose, animated by the furious energy of youth. The settlement takes on a wild and frantic air. Those who do not understand it simply stay out of its way. 

Raven and Murphy put themselves in charge of music, with some help from Emori, who sifts with interest through the Ark's old audio files. Monty and Jasper provide the food and drinks. Miller fashions a table on which to place this feast, and for the ceremony itself scavenges a collection of mismatched chairs from the old ship. Harper heads a small committee dedicated to decorations: they hang garlands on the table, across the chairs, over the doorway to the couple's cabin, and around the awkwardly cut windows in its face. Octavia sews the bride's dress, out of scraps of blue cloth that, she says repeatedly, might not even make a whole, and on the wedding day itself she and Lincoln present Clarke with blue and white flowers for her hair. 

"You didn't have to do this, O," Bellamy tells her, two days before the ceremony, standing outside the door of the cabin with his back to it, while inside Clarke twirls in a circle in her floor-length gown—he can hear her sharp intake of breath, surprised and pleased and in awe all at once. Octavia is smiling and proud. 

"If I didn't, who would?" she asks, ducking her head inside for a moment, to look. Raven is holding up a scrap of mirror for Clarke to see herself. Clarke is standing in bare feet, her hair, slightly tangled, flowing down over her shoulders. "I’m not letting her get married in her medical jacket and boots." 

Bellamy is planning on getting married in his old blue jacket and boots, but Octavia makes him a suit jacket instead, and Miller digs up some frayed dress pants from the Alpha Station stores. "I have my ways," he says, when Bellamy asks, and as Chancellor, he decides not to press. 

The parties start three days before the wedding itself: they eat well and they dance and Monty breaks out the good moonshine, and they forget their responsibilities, and almost, even, their age. "Feels like old times," Clarke jokes, as they clink their tin cups together and drink. She seems to glow in the light from the fire, her features beautifully familiar and wholly new, all at once. 

_Feels like the first days._

He'd been thinking the same thing himself. 

* 

"We were supposed to be back last night," Clarke says, when Raven catches her in the back of the Rover, playing with the radio again.  

Raven is carrying a small basket of berries, newly picked and then washed in the stream. Clarke can hear the stream, tumbling brightly over rocks, somewhere off to her left, but from the gloomy, dark inside of the Rover, it seems as distant as the melody of another world. All she can see through the open door is a bit of the tree line and a flare of pale morning light. Raven, standing in the middle of it, appears more outline than human, and her features are all but completely obscured. 

Clarke can guess, though, the expression on her face. 

Raven doesn't answer right away, just lifts up the basket and announces, "Breakfast," the word hard-edged like an order, and does not add another word until Clarke has climbed down out of the shadows and into the clear, cool day. 

The air is crisp and chill: autumn edging, ahead of schedule, into early winter. Clarke shivers and pulls her jacket sleeves down over her hands. The grass, pristine with frost, cracks under their feet as they walk to the riverbank. Raven has arranged a blanket for them there, where they can sit and watch the hypnotic rhythm of water flowing over water as they eat. 

"I know," Raven says, with careful patience, picking up the conversation at last. "We said we would be gone at least four days, and we'd be back yesterday evening at the earliest. But—at the _earliest_ , Clarke. No one was really expecting us back last night." 

Clarke makes a quiet, disbelieving noise under her breath, and rolls three small red berries in a circle in her palm. What she means is, _Bellamy was_ , but that is too obvious. It does not need saying. 

"They weren’t," Raven argues, sharper this time. "Realistically. And anyway, it's too late now. We won’t get in any earlier than this afternoon. This time of year, it's not reasonable to expect to travel as quickly on solar power as in the summer. You know this," she adds, and if she has started to sound like she is pleading, it is only because she is frustrated: they've had almost this precise conversation several times before. 

Clarke sighs. "I know," she says. She picks up one of the red berries and pops it into her mouth, crushes it slowly between her back teeth. Sharp, tart juices run over her tongue. "I know." 

"And don't bother messing with the radio," Raven adds. "It’s not worth it. The problem's on their end, not ours." 

_Which we also knew_ , she does not say, nor need to say, _before we started_. 

When she opens her mouth for the next in her litany of reassurances, though, Clarke cuts her off, sharp and sudden: 

“Maybe we shouldn’t have gone." 

Raven stares at her, slack-jawed and quiet.  

"Sure," she says, only after a long beat, a statue-still silence, and breaks her pose at last. She stretches her legs out in front of her, leans back on one hand and reaches over to the basket of berries with the other. "And miss one of the biggest regional summits of the year. That would have been better, you're right. The Chancellor would have been completely behind that idea." 

Clarke wants to tell her that she's being unfair, bringing up the Chancellor in this way, the Chancellor as in the _Chancellorship_ , as in the _office_ : not the husband who loves her or the partner who misses her, but the leader of the settlement, who knows as well as she does that they cannot risk their diplomatic ties over an uncertain old radio. She wants to argue, but she can’t, because Raven is right. The summit wasn’t optional; the trip wasn't dangerous; the radio is more luxury than necessity, now. Perhaps she is nervous because the old traumas still live in her bones. Perhaps she's just on edge because she always is, when she finds herself in a situation that is not completely under her control. 

She turns away, facing forward again and watching the steady, soothing rush of the current. "At least the summit went well," she admits, more subdued now, and quiet. She knows without looking that Raven is smiling, self-satisfied and pleased. 

"Yeah, two updated treaties, one new trade agreement, and we managed to swap almost everything we brought to exchange. Bellamy will be pleased. Once he gets over his happiness at seeing you again," she adds, leaning over to bump her shoulder against Clarke's. 

"You make it sound like we've been separated for weeks instead of days." 

"Funny, because you act like you've been separated for weeks instead of days." 

Clarke rolls her eyes but doesn't answer. The basket is almost empty now, and she gathers up half of the remaining berries into her hand. Once they're finished eating, they'll head out on their way again, and the sooner they set off, the sooner they'll be home. 

"Speaking of the Chancellor," Raven says, then, absolutely innocently and completely out of the blue. Clarke pauses with a berry halfway to her mouth and shoots Raven a suspicious look. 

"I didn't think we were." 

"We are. Anyway—his term of office ends in six months." 

"I know." Clarke pushes the basket closer to Raven, but she ignores the hint. Instead, she half-turns, so that she's facing Clarke, her expression serious but expectant. She seems to be biting back curiosity at the corners of her lips. 

"And after that...?" 

Clarke has no idea what Raven is hinting at. The shades of confusion on her own face are genuine. 

"Another election, I guess," she says with a shrug. "We'll probably have to start planning that soon, if we want it to go as smoothly as the last one." 

"No, I mean..." Raven takes in a deep breath, gathering her words. She lets it out again in a sigh, and asks, "I mean, is he running again?" 

"No." Clarke shakes her head emphatically. "Definitely not." 

"He would win, you know." 

"I know." She knows that Bellamy would landslide into a second term just as surely as she knows he will not seek one. "But he said when he decided to run in the first place that he wasn't going to install himself as an eternal ruler, and he's not." 

"Being a two-term Chancellor isn't the same as being an 'eternal ruler,' Clarke." 

She shakes her head, sharp and dismissive, her lips pursed. “The point of bringing back the Chancellorship and elections was to give the people a say in who runs the settlement, _and_ to give different people a chance to hold the office." 

Even to her own ears, she sounds like she's reading from a script, and she does not fault Raven for the skeptical expression she is wearing. A part of Clarke does not look forward to the day that Bellamy takes off the Chancellor's pin. A part of her does not trust any other person in the settlement to look after their people as carefully as he. A part of her wants to throw away all of her precise, official words and do what feels right, which is to lead as they have always led, and yet— 

"Did he tell you he's not running again?" Raven asks. 

"Yes—when he ran the first time. Like I said." 

"I meant more recently." 

Clarke bites her lip, then admits, "No. But he hasn't said or done anything that makes me think he's changed his mind." She reaches out, tips the basket over, and spills the remaining berries out onto her palm. "And he _would_ tell me, if he'd changed his mind." 

Raven has to concede this point, briefly bowing her head and nodding. "I don't doubt that. All right. What about you?" 

"What about me?" 

She means the question literally, innocently, but Raven clearly doesn't believe her show of naiveté. She crosses her arms against her chest. "You. The Chancellorship." She waits a beat, and when Clarke doesn’t answer: "Are you going to run?" 

"No." She means to sound more forceful than she does, but the word comes out neutral, a simple and emotionless fact. "I don't want—we don't want to just trade the pin back and forth like some sort of dynasty." 

"Again, Clarke, one of you serving a single term each does not create a dynasty. Abby and Kane served back to back terms. Sort of—" 

"Sort of," Clarke repeats, and jerks her head up again. "But Arkadia isn't Camp Jaha and it isn't the Ark. It's not the dropship either. We have to do things differently here. We need stability, and real rules that aren't just empty words that powerful people follow or ignore whenever they want. We—what? What's that smile for?" 

Raven shrugs, but makes no effort to hide her grin. "Nothing. Just that you sound like you're campaigning." 

"I—" 

She is about to argue. But she’s noticed now, how she sat up straighter while she spoke, and pushed her shoulders back; she feels in her own throat how her voice was booming, too loud, in the quiet of the near-wilderness. She forces herself to relax again, brings one knee up to her chest and slings her arms around it, looks at the edge of the blanket, the river, anywhere but Raven's face. 

"It's okay," Raven tells her, not mocking anymore but gentle and quiet. She reaches out her hand to squeeze Clarke's arm. "Breaking into spontaneous speeches is not the worst habit in the world, you know." 

Clarke shrugs, and doesn't answer. When the silence stretches too long, Raven asks, "Do you want to be Chancellor?" and Clarke, thinking to herself that she is going to say no, and that this is the truth, answers instead, "I don't think so," and then swallows down the sharp taste of her own surprise. 

"What does that mean?" Raven asks. 

"That... That I want to be normal. I really do." She smiles, very slight and soft. "But old habits die hard." 

When she looks to her right, she sees that Raven is smiling to match her: a quiet expression, thoughtful and understanding. "Have you talked to Bellamy about it?" 

Clarke shakes her head. "No. We haven't talked much at all about what will happen after his term ends. I'm not really worried about it—he's done so much for Arkadia. We're thriving." She can feel her smile widening, becoming something like a beam of pride. "Whoever does come next has a good foundation to build on." 

"And you're not concerned about who comes next?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean..." Raven shrugs, and Clarke stares at her, waiting, as she draws her hesitation out. "I mean if Bellamy's not running things, and you're not, who's left? Abby or Kane again? The old guard? Someone else from the hundred? Someone younger? The settlement isn't very big, you know, when you're looking at possible candidates." 

Clarke stretches out her leg and bumps her foot against Raven’s foot. "What about you?" 

"I'm being serious." 

"So am I. A little. I'm trying to say that there are options. Other people who can make decisions and take responsibility. I can't... I can't do everything on my own." 

Sometimes, it's still hard to say. The words feel foreign to her, a heavy confession, a deep secret. A mantra she’s still learning. 

"No one said anything about being on your own." 

"I know." 

Except that true leadership always comes with loneliness. She feels it in Bellamy sometimes, even now: a burden that she tries to ease in him. 

"You don't completely trust anyone but him and yourself, do you?" Raven asks, quietly, her words almost inaudible above the loud rush of the current.  

Clarke shakes her head. "But I also think... don't we deserve a break? Some peace, at last?" 

Raven doesn't answer for a long time. Clarke wraps her arms around both of her legs and watches the river, the glint of the sun chasing patterns on the water, how it swerves and eddies over the rocks. She does not say the rest: that she does not entirely trust herself with the pin, that she still remembers the slow mossy growth of corruption inside her, that she still feels the weight of regrets she's sworn out loud that she's let go. Every day she builds something new on the foundation of the past. She's proud of what she's built. But she can't stop worrying that the foundation is rotting. It is the most basic fear still left to her. Only Bellamy knows anything of this, at all. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Raven pick up the basket and push herself awkwardly to her feet. "You're right," she says. "I care about Arkadia; that's the only reason I brought all this up. But I care about you even more. You’ll make the right decision. Now let's go home." 

* 

On the Ark, the Council approved all marriages and the Chancellor performed all marriage ceremonies. But Arkadia has no Council, the Exodus Charter makes no mention of marriage, and no one has even gotten engaged since the hundred were first sent to the ground. 

So Bellamy and Clarke make up new rules as they go.  

Clarke suggests starting a book in which all new marriages are recorded. They sign their names after the ceremony, right at the top of a clean, blank page, with the date in Clarke's careful hand at the far right.  

Bellamy does not believe that he has either the right or the ability to approve a private union, but he grants himself permission anyway, in a solemn voice after he proposes, after Clarke says yes. She asks him what he's doing, he explains, and she laughs. He picks her up off the ground and kisses her again. A sharp breeze swirls the newly fallen leaves at their feet. 

They debate for some time the question of who has the authority to marry them, because surely someone does, but Bellamy himself is the only obvious choice. He suggests that anyone can lead the ceremony, because "marriage is just a declaration of our commitment to each other, and it lasts as long as we want it to. It doesn't matter who says, 'you're married now,' because _we're_ the ones who are going to be putting the work into our marriage and keeping it alive.” 

Clarke tells him that that's sweet, more romantic than he will admit, but, "it's not just that. It's official. It's a status granted by the government—" 

"That was on the Ark—" 

"And Old Earth." 

"This isn't _Old_ Earth." 

She's holding his hands between her hands. Her fingers slide across his knuckles. His expression softens. 

"What does it do, though?” he asks. “What's the point? Why do I care, as the Chancellor, who marries and who doesn't?" 

"What's the _point_?" Clarke echoes, but there’s no sharpness to her voice, only fond amusement. "Says the man who proposed to me." 

"I'm serious. If there's no one-child policy—" 

"But then why get married? If it's just between us..." She untangles her fingers from his fingers and rests her palm against his cheek, a soft slide of her thumb across his cheekbone, a gentle caress. "I'm already committed to you." 

"So am I. To you. We're just saying it in public, in front of our friends and family..." 

"Right. The community. That's what public means. That's why it matters—" 

"So what? What do we do? We wait until I step down?" 

Clarke leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth. She's smiling, and at her kiss, the outer sheen of his frustration drops. She feels him relax into her touch. 

In the end, he hands over the Chancellor's pin to Abby for the day, a simple exchange outside his cabin that takes on a solemnity he did not expect, and she performs the ceremony for them. She recites the traditional speech from the old Ark Code, the same one she still remembers from her own wedding day, and in the silence after the familiar words are said, leaves a space for the bride and groom themselves to speak. 

* 

After breakfast, Monty takes him on a tour of the fields. The temperature has risen, and the frost has melted away, leaving behind dull late-season grass and patches of well-trampled dirt. Monty kneels down to examine the inscrutable round shapes of the vegetables, while Bellamy stands behind him, his arms crossed against his chest, watching the hazy column of smoke rising up from the center fire pit in Arkadia. 

He’s startled despite himself when Monty stands up abruptly, dusts off his palms, and declares, "We'll be fine.” 

"Are you sure?" 

"I'm sure." He does not comment on Bellamy's unnecessary worry, his constant distrust, not anymore. He knows this pattern like a call and response. "The frost wasn't severe and our crops are hardy. We didn't lose much. Possibly nothing." He tilts his head back, squinting. "Could use some more rain though.” 

Bellamy makes a low humming noise in reply, a thoughtful _mmm_. The sky is clear and pale, bleached out almost to white, the sun a colorless flare in the distance. There is no wind, and the air is cool and sharp, without being cold. He glances down at the plants again, taking in their curling green vines and flat, broad leaves. 

"Do you think we'll need to start the harvest early?" 

Monty considers, then gives a noncommittal shrug. "Probably not. I really think we'll be fine, you know." 

_Thinking_ we’ll be fine, Bellamy considers saying, isn't exactly reassurance, not the kind he needs to calm this long-festering annual fear. He finds himself on edge every winter, waiting for the bad season, the long season, the week when their careful stores run out; he's heard the stories. He knows sometimes the cold months linger. He wonders if they're cheating fate every year when they wake to the first thaw, the tiny sprigs of yellow flowers growing outside his cabin door, the smell of damp earth and melting snow. And even then: will another snowfall come?  

At least once a year, every year since they’ve landed, he’s asked himself: have they run out the end of their luck at last? 

"If you need any additional help, let me know," he says, instead. "Any time. I can pull people off other projects. Making sure we have enough food for the winter is the priority." 

"I know," Monty answers, and this time there is the slightest hint of impatience in his voice. "And you know I'm taking care of it." 

He meets Bellamy's gaze with a steady eye of his own, and it's Bellamy who looks away first. 

"I know," he admits. “I know. You’ve done this before.” 

"I bet you're going to miss this next year," Monty says, lightly now, and with a hint of a smile, into the silence that follows. Bellamy knows what he's doing, but he doesn't take the bait. "When someone else is Chancellor," Monty adds, and Bellamy just shrugs.  

"I'm not running for a second term, if that's what you really want to ask," he says, as they start walking again. Bellamy takes the lead, turning them down a narrow path between two plots, Monty following a few steps behind.

"I was just going to try the unsubtle route, thanks," Monty answers. Bellamy can hear that he's smiling. "I'm surprised. I thought you'd have changed your mind by this time." 

"I have other plans." 

"With Clarke?" 

Bellamy's step falters, and he doesn't immediately reply, because in fact he has not yet had this discussion with Clarke. He's sure she knows that he has no intention of seeking another term. But their future has mostly been defined by what they have not planned, and he doesn’t want to break open this secret for Monty, before he even brings it up with his wife—because it does feel like a secret, now, a heavy weight of words he’s suddenly realized are unsaid. 

So he asks, "What does that mean?" and Monty shrugs. They turn another corner and he falls into step beside Bellamy again. 

"Exactly what I said. Are you planning something together? A new project?” He sticks his hands in the pockets of his jacket, shrugs his shoulders up. “Kids?" 

"Kids?" 

"Yeah. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. You always look so excited when you visit the classrooms in Alpha Station." 

Bellamy can feel his jaw starting to clench, a tic that most people in Arkadia would take as a warning sign, but which he knows that Monty, if he notices at all, will completely ignore. "That's not the reason." 

"Mmm," Monty answers, apparently unconvinced. 

"The school," Bellamy reminds him, "the classrooms, are our biggest accomplishment in Arkadia, at least as important as taking down the wall—" 

"And starting to farm," Monty adds. "Building the cabins. Forming new alliances with the Grounder clans. Holding the last election." He ticks off each one on his fingers, his voice steady and neutral as he lists off the settlement's accomplishments. Bellamy's accomplishments, in part. 

"You sound like you're about to relaunch my campaign." 

"And you sounded like you were about to make a campaign speech. I'm just saying, you don't need to be modest." 

Bellamy kicks at a stray stone, lying too close to the edge of their strong, reliant fields. "Who says I'm being modest?" he answers, and Monty laughs under his breath. "I'm not undermining the rest of it," he adds. "But without those kids, everything else falls apart in a few years." 

"More than a few." 

"You know what I mean." 

Monty hums again, and this time, unexpectedly quiet and solemn, he says, "I do. You're thinking about the future." 

"Somebody has to." 

Bellamy means this as a joke, but it falls flat. He wonders just how serious Monty was in his questions, if he is impatient to see another generation, Earth-born at last and knowing only peace, a better generation than their own, start to grow. Or if he wants, when he repeats, "Somebody _does_ ," another term of familiar leadership, a village that feels sometimes like the dropship camp, a childhood of his own that never fully ends. If he is running toward change or fearful of it. Bellamy finds he cannot read him, he cannot be sure. They've left the fields behind them by now, and ahead, the cabins on the outskirts of Arkadia stand sturdy and familiar, homes they built themselves, new homes, repurposed from the earth itself and anchored in the ground. 

* 

After the wedding, they feast, and when the sun starts to go down, they dance. 

Bellamy and Clarke sit at the center of the table, passing dishes down to their left and their right. In front of them is more food than Bellamy has ever seen in one place at one time in his life, and part of him wonders if this occasion is worth the expense and the effort, if maybe they should be more frugal in planning for the winter months ahead. But Clarke is by his side and she's wearing his ring, and he's wearing hers. So this must be it, then, the most significant day of his life. How can he say it is not an event worth celebrating with abundance? He looks around the table and he sees his people, happy and strong, eating their fill of food they grew and hunted and prepared for themselves, and he cannot feel guilt. Clarke lifts her tin cup to his and they toast. 

_To our future. To us._

Monty and Raven string up makeshift lanterns and Miller builds a roaring fire in the main fire pit, so that the celebration can continue even as the daylight starts to fade. Clarke pulls Bellamy to his feet and they stumble into the trampled patch of dirt that constitutes the dance floor. His hands at her waist, her hands on his shoulders. He watches her face in the deep sunset glow, sees that it is thoughtful and lovely and soft, and he has to remind himself again that he is staring at his wife. A light wind picks up and swirls her dress around their legs. It is enough to make her shiver, and her draws her closer still.  

"Everyone's watching us," he whispers. 

"That’s because we're the only ones dancing.” She sounds like she's trying not to laugh, perhaps because they are so awkward, so unworthy of having their fumbling steps observed—but then when have they had time for dancing? He feels the rhythm of her hips with each step, sliding beneath his palms, and he’s sure that this is some strange, unprecedented sort of luck. 

"Feels strange," she adds, the smile slipping from her face, her voice a low, secret hush. “Being watched.” As she speaks, she traces her finger along the curve of his ear. Her touch is light, almost awed, and for a moment a furrow creases between her brows. How unusual this is, she thinks: Bellamy, her husband now, his face a perfect memory, and also beautifully new.  

He leans in but does not kiss her. Their foreheads bump, and then their feet. Clarke has no shoes to go with her dress, but it is warm enough still for both of them to be barefoot, and so it is only his bare toes that catch against her toes. The earth feels soft and real and old beneath their feet. What she means is they have always been quiet and careful and private, and now they are the center of the world. 

"It does," Bellamy agrees. But: "You look beautiful." 

He thinks Clarke might be blushing, but he can’t be certain, because the day is ending and the light is fading low. 

The song ends then with a last long, sweet note, and the music shifts to something faster, with a quick, lively beat. The others join the dance floor in couples and threes. Bellamy and Clarke are left at the center of a throng, into which they disappear gladly, anonymous, all but alone with each other though still surrounded by friends. The party winds on late into the night, punctuated by laughter and occasional shouts of joy. 

* 

The Rover returns, at last, in the late afternoon. Bellamy, Monty, and Jasper are standing in the hangar deck to meet it as it rolls inside, slow and weary, Raven behind the wheel and Clarke in the passenger seat. Monty and Jasper walk around to the left side to help Raven down, but Bellamy stays where he is. His heart is pounding a slow beat in his throat and he is tense, counting down the last seconds of missing her.  

The passenger door opens and he sees her at last, Clarke, dangling her legs over the side of the truck before she lowers herself down. Her boots thump on the concrete floor, and she slams her door shut. Then at last she turns around and sees him. And smiles, a wide, relieved, private smile that is only for him. 

He takes her in his arms and holds her close. She's up on her toes, her ear rubbing against his ear, her cheek again his cheek, her arms around his back and her hands moving, quick and eager, taking in the shape of him. Her skin feels cool from the outdoor chill, but she warms beneath his touch. He kisses her, but only lightly, then lets his forehead rest against hers as he slides his palms slowly down to her hips and lets his eyelids close. 

"Good trip?" he asks, a low murmur, and Clarke laughs. 

"Yeah, it was fine. I'll tell you all about it, I just—" 

"I know." 

They've only been separated a handful of days. And he knew, the whole time, that she was safe, that she would, after an absence short enough to be counted in hours, come back to him again. But still, when he feels her nose bump up against his nose, and he knows she's smiling still, and she's real and warm and close, he recognizes a painful tension, as of breath held too subtly and too long, finally leaving, and he almost doesn't care that they aren't yet alone. 

"I missed you," Clarke whispers, and he hugs her closer, and kisses her again. 

Later, after Clarke and Raven have dropped their bags off in their cabins, and the most important debriefing has been done, he and Clarke slip into the cafeteria for the first dinner shift and find themselves a small, quiet table in the back. Usually, Bellamy eats where he can be seen. He likes to be available whenever possible, for whatever the citizens of Arkadia may need. Clarke teases him lightly about his unusual choice of dining spot tonight, but he just shrugs, a little stiff, and gives as his excuse: "I'm discussing security matters with one of my best advisors. We need _some_ privacy, at least." 

"Oh, is that what we're doing?" Clarke asks, as she slips into the chair across from him and sets down her tray. "I thought I was having dinner with my husband." 

Bellamy ducks his head and shrugs again.  

"Are we multi-tasking?"  

"You could say that." 

He reaches out across the table and takes her hand in his. A tension flows from her; he can see it in the settling of her shoulders, her almost inaudible sigh, the way she pulls in her lips to hide her smile. 

"Did I miss much?" she asks. 

Bellamy picks up his fork but doesn't let go of her hand. He tells her about the frost, Monty’s plans for the harvest, the latest with the radio problems, and how Jasper's gotten a weak signal back, at least. Then he asks about the summit, and Clarke recounts the most entertaining of her stories. Most of the clans have become comfortable with the group they still call Skaikru, and she's found herself a party to more than a couple inside jokes. She tries to explain them, but Bellamy doesn't fully understand. 

"It sounds like you had a fun time," he notes. 

"I did." She slides her thumb across the top of his hand, bites the corner of her mouth: about to say something more, but not yet able. Bellamy waits. "I know,” she starts, slowly, “that you don't like dealing with the clans as much—" 

"That's why I don't." His voice sounds too harsh for his own liking, harsher than he feels, so he swallows it down. "I don't hate them, Clarke. I don't even distrust them anymore. But I don't really speak their language." 

"I don't know, I think your Trig's pretty good." 

"I don't mean it like that." 

She shrugs up one shoulder, a half-smile on her face. "I know." 

He pauses again, twists his hand around in hers so that they're palm to palm, fingers exploring absently along fingers. 

"I'd rather focus on Arkadia,” he says. “That's why I didn't go to this summit. That's why I never go to the summits if I can avoid it. You're the one—you're good at this stuff. Negotiating. Debating." 

"Threatening?" 

He tilts his head, a small concession. "If necessary. Being sly. And I know you love going on these diplomatic trips." 

"I'm not crazy about being away from you," she answers, and Bellamy squeezes her hand tight. "But." She pauses, her grip loose on her fork, watching the tines twirl in a circle as if controlled by someone else’s hand. "I will... I'll miss it, I think." 

"Who says you're going to stop? Unless this summit went so well, we never need to have another one."

Clarke laughs, a short, incredulous bark. "No, I wouldn't say the discussion is over. The Trishanakru ambassador brought a list of issues a foot long so—" 

"So, the next Chancellor would be an idiot to send a random, inexperienced person to deal with those issues instead of you," Bellamy finishes, and his voice is so certain, so strong, that Clarke cannot help but glance up, her own expression softening at the determined look on his face. 

"We're admitting that there will be a next Chancellor, then." 

Her tone is serious and low, but Bellamy just raises his eyebrows, an exaggerated look of surprise. "Yes, we're admitting that time moves forward. Hardly a revelation, Ambassador." 

Clarke rolls her eyes and nudges his foot under the table. "But we haven't talked about it,” she reminds him, leaning forward now and catching his eye. “I know your term is ending, and you know it—" 

"And everyone else knows it. Monty was asking me about my plans earlier." 

"So was Raven. I told her you weren't running again." 

"Because I'm not." He takes a drink of water, leaning back slightly but not letting go of her fingers, still laced between his fingers. "I know what I want to do next year, and it isn't running all of Arkadia. I want to organize the election, and I want it to go well, and then I want to hand off power to someone else." 

Clarke waits, apparently expecting him to say more, but he returns to his dinner instead. She hesitates, then asks, "Do you want that someone else to be me?" 

The question does not entirely surprise him, but still he has to roll over the words in his head. He feels a truth there, and a half-truth, and a knot of confusion, too, which is absurd, as if he hadn't considered her questions countless times in the quiet and the stillness of their bed alone at night.  

"Do you want it to be you?" he asks. 

Clarke shakes her head. "No. I could be. I know that. But I don't... I don’t want to live that life again." 

Bellamy hums, a low agreement. He doesn’t need her to explain. He wants to ask her what she does want, but he can see on her face that she is working up to exactly those words, that confession. His own desires burn like a low flame in his chest. 

"I want to be an Ambassador, still," she admits. "I want to keep working for Arkadia, and I want to protect the alliances. You know that without those, we don't have anything." 

"We'd have to rebuild the wall." 

"And go back to war." She sighs. Her plate is almost empty now, but she only pushes the last bite of meat absently around the edge. 

"That's not happening," Bellamy reminds her. "Not on our watch. That was our promise." 

"That was _your_ promise, Chancellor." 

"Ours. Because I couldn't do it without you. And—I doubt the next Chancellor could, either. You should continue protecting these alliances, Clarke. Don't rely on my successor to give you the post. Just take it." 

She flashes him a suspicious, narrow-eyed look. "Are you suggesting some sort of... ambassadorship coup?" 

"No. An election." His voice has started to rise, but he tamps it back down, now no more than an urgent whisper as he leans across the table toward her. "An election that brings back the Council. I basically already have one, but it's all unofficial. If we had a real Council set up, like on the Ark, the different segments of the settlement could have their own representatives, and the Chancellor could have official, reliable, advisors. Instead of setting it up by Station, we could arrange it by specialty: a Council member who specializes in farming, in security, in Grounder relations, in... engineering, whatever. And those people could get more experience in having responsibility and co-leading the community, and then some of _them_ could run for Chancellor in the future."  

Clarke is silent for so long that Bellamy's enthusiasm starts to falter. He tries to read the thoughtful expression on her face, the parting of her lips, the tilt of her head. 

"I think that would be great," she says, at last, " _if_ you can organize an election on that scale in the next couple of months. I mean, there's a lot to consider: how many Council seats there will be, if they'll be divided into districts in any way or each elected at-large, the exact responsibilities of each Council member—" 

"Clarke." He squeezes her hand tight, and smiles, the same lopsided and almost goofy grin he used to give her when, having run out of good options, facing the end, still they'd step once more into the breach. When she sees it, she lets her questions go in one long outtake of breath. "I think,” he says, “we can figure all that out." 

"There's that 'we' word again," she teases, narrow-eyed, but she's biting back a tiny smile herself. 

"Are you telling me that you don't _want_ to organize the most ambitious election Arkadia has ever held? Because I can always ask Raven—" 

"No, no. It’s under control. If we get started tomorrow, we can announce the election dates right after the harvest."  

She's already running those dates through her head, he can tell, and as he watches her, he can feel the warm, satisfied glow of accomplishment, of progress, seeping through him. The plans weren't plans until he'd shared them with Clarke. Before that, they were only dreams, or vague hopes, or wishes. 

"What about you?" she asks, after a moment, startling him out of his reverie. 

"What about me?"  

"After the election. I'll be on the Council, hopefully—" 

"Clearly." 

"And you won't be Chancellor." She plays her fingers through his fingers, and he wonders, absently, if she is nervous. "You said you knew what you wanted to do next. So...?" 

Bellamy pretends to think for a moment, then sighs, and says in his most solemn voice, "I was thinking I’d retire." 

Clarke rolls her eyes. "I'm being serious." 

"I know. I know.” He drops the overdone grave expression and lets a more honest thoughtfulness settle in its place. “And I do… I do have some ideas."  

It's funny, how he didn't expect these particular words to lodge in his throat. Across from him, Clarke waits patiently, her hand still holding his. 

"I want," he says at last, "to be in charge of the school." 

"The school?" she repeats. She sounds the slightest bit uncertain, but curious: thinking, perhaps, that there’s not much to be in charge of, that their attempts at education so far have been scattered and weak. "Like the classrooms in Alpha Station?" 

"Yes. But I want to build a real schoolhouse, and organize the classes properly, by subject and difficulty." His voice is louder, now, but the certainty that infuses it is uneven. He’s never given these words full form before, even to himself. "We have a decent start, but it's not enough, and it's no one's priority right now." 

"It's yours. You're always looking in on the classes, the students..." 

"Arkadia is my priority. _Everything_ is my priority, all the time." He opens his mouth to say more, then cuts himself off. He does not want to complain. Yes, the mantle of leadership is heavy. But he asked for it, he chased it, and he does not carry it alone. He never truly has. 

Clarke’s expression is sympathetic and fond. 

"If I could focus on the school—" he starts. 

"Then it will thrive.” She covers his hand with both of her own, and he feels the last of his self-consciousness leave him. Her voice is so warm, and so quietly confident, that in that moment, he believes her completely. He believes that only the best is still to come. 

* 

Clarke looks up, and sees that Bellamy is watching her, the expression around his eyes soft and kind. In that moment, every word that she so carefully rehearsed disappears, and she can only open her mouth, her tongue useless and dull, and close it again. He was right. A public declaration is too much. They should have run off together and made their promises alone, in a clearing in the woods, and he would be just as much her husband when they returned as he will be in a few minutes—in a few minutes, perhaps, if she can ever will herself to speak. 

The attention of the whole settlement is on her. She has never felt so naked or exposed in the gaze of a crowd.  

Bellamy squeezes her hands, and the corner of his mouth tilts up, and a certain strain of courage fills her. "It's okay," he whispers. And it is. Yes, the people are watching, but there is no judgment, no impatience, in them. This is her moment, and Bellamy's, and she will rest in the center of it as long as she needs. 

Slowly, Clarke takes a breath. She says the first words that come to her, then lets them build. 

"Bellamy," she says. "Bellamy, I don't think I've ever told you just how much I've relied on you, almost since the first day we met. Even when we've been separated, even when I wasn't certain I'd ever see you again, I've looked to you to give me strength. You understand me, what I need, what I’m afraid of, sometimes better than I understand myself. You make me a better person. You are unfailingly brave and strong, and devoted to your people, and to doing what is right. And you are so kind. When given the opportunity, you will always be kind. I hope this world only gives you more chances for kindness and happiness, and I promise to do my best to create that world for you. I promise to be a person you can rely on. I promise to stand by your side for the rest of my life, through scarcity and abundance, through sickness and health, through war and peace. I love you, and I always will." 

As she finishes speaking, she takes a slow, shaky breath. She's almost afraid that she might cry. Bellamy briefly takes one of his hands from hers and wipes the back of his wrist roughly across his eyes. Then he exhales, too, almost a sob, almost laughter at his own show of emotion, and a sympathetic ripple of watery laughter trills through the audience as well. 

"Clarke," he says, after a moment, and she presses down on his hands in return. "Looking back, I think I've loved you since our time at the dropship camp, our first month together on Earth. I didn't realize it then, but now that I know what this feeling is, it's hard to remember a time when I didn’t carry it with me wherever I go. It's hard even to remember a time when you weren't in my life. You've helped me grow into a person I'm proud to be, and you've helped me find peace even when I thought that was impossible. You have an incredible strength and resilience. You are brave, intelligent, creative, determined, and selfless. When I'm with you, I feel safe. I promise to be a place of safety for you, to be strong for you, to be your partner in everything, for the rest of my life. I promise to stand by your side for the rest of my life, through scarcity and abundance, through sickness and health, through war and peace. Because I love you, and I always will." 

She could kiss him. She could kiss him right there and then, but they are not alone in a clearing in the woods. All of their friends and family are watching, and Abby is standing in front of them, holding the rings. 

"Clarke," she is saying, an admirable steadiness to her voice, "do you take Bellamy Blake to be your husband, now and for the rest of your life, until death parts you?" 

"I do." 

She takes the larger of the rings and slides it onto his finger. Her own hand is shaking, just the slightest bit. 

"Bellamy, do you take Clarke Griffin to be your wife, now and for the rest of your life, until death parts you?" 

"I do." He slides the second ring onto her finger, then lifts her hand for a kiss. "And longer." 

"And longer," Clarke echoes. She’s not sure if she is smiling, or just about to cry. 

"Then by the power of the Chancellorship, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss each other." 

And that, without hesitation, they do. 

* 

They return to their cabin not long after dark. Bellamy lights the lantern on their bedside table. Clarke pulls off her shoes and kicks them toward the corner of the room. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, with Bellamy between her legs, standing over her and leaning down until his forehead touches hers, she is at peace. She breathes out and the long days of travel leave her. She is where she’s meant to be. She wraps her fingers around his biceps and feels him, solid and strong, and when his hands slide up her back, his confident and sure touch undoes her, and she shivers, and stretches up to meet him. 

They undress each other by the flickering lantern flame. Their skin, cool from the outdoors and the persistent early chill, warms to each other's touch. They come alive. Bellamy kisses down between her breasts and Clarke drapes her arm over his shoulders, feeling out with gentle fingertips each movement of the muscles in his back. "I missed you," she tells him, and he murmurs something that she does not quite understand, something like _I missed you too_ , or _I love you_ , there in the hollow space between her ribs. 

Later, when she twists out from under him, climbs on top of him, her palms sliding up and up along the undersides of his arms, to his wrists, he watches her with that expression only she has ever seen, loving and in awe. She brings his hands up to the top of the bed. He crosses his arms behind his head, and his expression turns sleepy: not tired, but at ease, quietly and proudly admiring her. She uses her hands, her mouth, to bring him back to himself, and to her. 

And then, when she is hugging him close and her nose is against his neck, her legs around his waist, not sure if he's lifting her or she's lifting herself, she breathes him in, and her lungs feel close to bursting. Her fingers find their way into his hair as his sturdy arms wrap around her—her back, her hips—and she feels him kissing any bit of skin he can reach, and murmuring endearments, a constant, lovely melody surrounding her. They can barely move but they sway against each other. They are tired but they hold each other up. 

She ends up at last with her head at the bottom edge of the bed, kissing him desperately while he rocks into her, her hips matching the rhythm of his hips. 

It is late by the time they fall back onto their pillows, their blanket a tangled mess around their legs. Clarke licks a sheen of salty sweat from her lip. Her hair is sticking to her forehead and she can feel the heavy rise and fall of Bellamy's chest as he catches his breath. He wraps his arm around her, his hand on her hip. She nuzzles her nose against his ear, rests her hand lightly over his heart. 

"Bellamy?" she mumbles, her eyes half-closed. “What time do you think it is?" 

He exhales long and hard, something like a question there in his breath, a sleepy uncertainty, and shrugs. She rides the wave of his shoulders, up and down. 

"Midnight," he guesses. "Maybe later." 

Clarke hums. She tucks herself in against his side, her legs around his legs. She watches the lamplight playing across their skin, bringing out highlights of orange and gold. 

"Why?" Bellamy asks, his voice rumbling and low. 

"Mmm. Because. It's our anniversary tomorrow. Or today." 

For a moment, she feels an unusual stillness from him, a nervous tension, and then he turns awkwardly to try to catch her eye.  

"Our anniversary,” he echoes. And: “One year since we got married.” He sounds like he's in awe, and she smiles, and leans up on her elbow to kiss him, soft and slow. 

"A whole year," she whispers. “The best year of my life.” She’s still so close that her lips ghost across his lips as she speaks. He reaches up his hand to tangle his fingers in her hair, and she lets herself lie down on top of him, and with her free hand, she pulls the blankets up to cover them and keep them warm. She is kissing him again. And though it is late, and dark, and around them the settlement has grown quiet with sleep, and on their bedside table, their lantern is burning low, still she does not want to pull away. She is where she belongs. She and Bellamy both, they are home. 

 

 

November 20 - December 29, 2018 / Edited January 9 - February 3, 2019

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "the day before a one year anniversary" from [this list](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/post/167775914020/otp-scenarios).
> 
> For The 100 Ladies Appreciation Week, I wrote a scene of Clarke arriving at the summit mentioned in this fic. You can find that [here](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/post/181910937790/january-10-the-100-ladies-appreciation-day-four).
> 
> Accompanying moodboard [here](http://kinetic-elaboration.tumblr.com/post/182534156155/anchored-in-the-ground-for)
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome.


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